


Law of the Talon

by lexicale



Series: Anasyromenos!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Androgyne, Incest, Other, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexicale/pseuds/lexicale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since R.J. left, Dean's been in charge of their neighborhood. That means that when there's a problem, he's got to deal with it -- the only issue? His hotass little brother is purposefully trying to distract him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Law of the Talon

**Author's Note:**

> Androgyne!Sam(Sam is biologically male, but genders himself neutrally), streetfighter!Dean

The first crush of fist against cheek, of bone against bone, is louder than all the shouting, all the cries. It’s louder than the cars that are passing almost silent, just a shhr-shhr-shrr of wet tires on wet asphalt, a day after the rain and down the road beyond the alleyway, the world beyond this little clearing in between buildings. It’s a corner of three apartment blocks, a corner store and a market, a little patio of concrete lost in the jungle, a canopy of laundry lines above their heads, the clothing all having been pulled to keep out of the storm.

The worst of it has past now, moved overhead after two days of lightning and downpour, but the sky’s still overcast, darker now with dusk, and it’s still drizzling, just like it almost always is.

Dean’s feet skid on the concrete, body wrenching, and he hears the others yelling, hears the laughter and the jeers, the calls and cries for victory, for blood, for more. Dean’s taken one good punch to the ribs, but nothing worse -- nothing compared to Danny, nose bleeding now and a cut across his brow from Dean’s ring. Dean knows the kid’s got at least two bruised ribs, if not something worse, but he’s still up, knowing better to go down, knows it doesn’t end when you go down, and Dean wipes the back of his hand over his lips.

Momentarily, his eyes flick to the opening of one of the alley’s, the bare, yellow light of the lamp post cast over the corner edge, leaving more shadows than light over Sammy’s skin, but somehow he still manages to be gorgeous.

He’s tall and long, body skinny as a whip, but it looks good on him, all narrow arms and lean thighs, and with his long hair curling around his shoulders, he looks sexless, something neither here nor there. It’s something he knows. Something he plays up. He’s wearing tight jeans and a loose shirt that hangs off of one shoulder, bares the line of his clavicle, a dusting of rain there on pale skin, and his eyes are hooded. He’s wearing lip gloss, and most kids where they live would get the shit beat out of them for dressing like Sammy does, looking like Sammy does, like some kind of half-here-neither-there prostitute, but people know the Winchesters. Respect the Winchesters.

And Sammy is one of them, one of the gang, their little Lolita.

Dean sees Antony leaning over Sam, half protective half something else, and Sammy looks up at the bigger man, says something too soft to hear, and Dean’s eyes narrow, but he’s spent too much time staring at his brother and not enough at his opponent, and Danny gets a good one, right across Dean’s jaw.

As he twists, falls to the ground, he can see the hint of a smile on Sam’s painted lips.

The fucker loves to play his games.

Dean’s hands slam down hard on the wet ground, feels the peaks and valleys of the concrete pressing into his chaffed palm, and their dad might have been a drunk, good for little more than the paycheck he brought in every month, but he’d taught Dean one thing, and that was how to fight. Danny’s foot is coming for his head, and Dean rolls away fast enough to hear the crunch, the scream of pain when Danny’s foot meets the ground so much harder than the flesh he was expecting. It’s his ankle, Dean thinks. Probably, anyways. Lots of little bones in there.

Things too easily snapped.

Dean jumps to his feet even while Danny is still hobbling, trying to get his balance back, and normally Dean wouldn’t give him the chance, but he’s distracted. He’s caught in Sam’s little game, just like everyone else, and his eyes jump immediately back to where Antony is leaning in for a kiss. Sam leans into it until he doesn’t anymore, shifting his head away at the last second to take the affection on the point of his jaw, and he’s looking across the space at Dean, the challenge clear in his heavy hazel eyes.

_Are you man enough?_

Dean can see Antony’s hand slipping down Sam’s back, pressing in between his legs -- not at the front, but from behind. Everyone knows Sam’s a boy, but it’s never made a difference, not once Sam and Dean became one of them. Not since Dean beat the crap out of a kid three years older than him, when he was fifteen and the new kid and Sam was the eleven year old pinned to his side. 

They’ve lived here for six years. Everyone knows them. It’s their neighborhood. These are their people.

And that’s why Dean gives Danny a piece of mercy -- a slam with his elbow to the young kid’s jaw, sending him stumbling then falling to his knees, battered and bloodied and bruised but still alive. Dean won’t kick him when he’s down. The kid’s learned his lesson.

“Don’t you ever try that shit again,” Dean warns anyway, needless but necessary, not to drive it home to Danny but for everyone else. He can hear them talking, money being exchanged, a loss for any idiot who’d think to bet against him. “Not here. You got me?”

“Yes,” Danny mutters, his broken hand cradled to his chest, the other on the ground. Dean walks over, lays his boot over the fingers on the pavement and he hears Danny hiss in preparation, but the pain doesn’t come. Dean doesn’t put his weight down. Not yet, at least.

He reached down instead, fists his fingers in Danny’s dark hair and twists his head up.

“My turf,” Dean says, looking down at the younger man. “My rules. R.J. isn’t here anymore.”

Danny swallows and then nods as much as he can, bruises forming dark and nasty on his face. Dean doesn’t know where the drugs ended up. He trusts Luce with that.

He backs off then, his point made. His fingers untangle from Danny’s hair, foot moves away without hurting those vulnerable fingers. Everyone gets a chance here -- that’s always been Dean’s way. He’s never been about the permanent injuries. Sometimes people just need a good beat down every now and again. It’s not like he’s angry at Danny. Just has to put him in his place.

He turns away then, seeing the others leaned up against walls or standing in groups of two or three, talking quieter now that the fight is over, exchanging money and other things, news and the occasional cigarette. Their eyes glance over to him, always with a respectful nod when they meet and Dean shakes his head like a dog, splattering rain water over the shoulders of his dad’s old leather jacket. He twists his head from side to side, cracking his neck, before he looks over to his brother.

Antony is kissing Sam’s bare shoulder, Dean’s brother leaned back against the brick wall, and Dean can see the goosebumps on the pale flesh, stupid kid coming out without a coat on, with nothing but a short sleeved scrap of cloth between him and the elements. Sam’s hands, fingers so long and skinny and slender, tapered digits that Dean always loves to watch, so tender and careful with every movement, are gliding over another man’s skin, another man’s cheek, and it’s not the first time. Not the tenth. And it won’t be the last.

Sam loves to get him riled.

Dean snorts. It doesn’t work as well as it used to -- he knows his brother too well, trusts him too deep. Sam may be a little fay, too seemingly soft for their life, but he knows how to handle himself. Four years younger than Dean and more feminine than most people are comfortable with, but he’s still Dean’s partner, Dean’s confidante. Dean’s second.

“C’mon, kid, cut it out,” he says as he strolls over and Sam chuckles, pushing Antony away like he’s nothing. The bigger man looks awkward when he raises his head to meet Dean’s eyes, coughs and glances away even as Sam sidles up to Dean’s side. Dean puts his arm around his brother’s bony shoulders, feels the skin of the bare one against his blood and callus roughened fingers.

“Dean,” Antony says, stupid enough to be led around by his dick, putting his hands on Dean’s girl while Dean beat the shit out of someone else. Stupid enough to think that just because he can get his hands on Sam’s ass that that means anything, like Sam hasn’t flirted and cooed with every kid on their block, only to dance right out of reach again the minute they go for anything real.

“Tony,” Dean replies, amiable. He’s in a good mood -- riding that adrenaline rush from a fight, feeling good, feeling strong, and with his boy under his arm, up against his side like a trophy. He’s the only one that ever won Sam. That’s all that matters to him. 

“Have a good night,” he says to Tony as they pass, walking down the dark, unlit passage of the alleyway. The yellowish light fades out behind them, leaving them in shadow, but Dean can feel every step, every sway of their bodies as they walk together. For as long as Dean can remember, Sam’s been tucked against his side, from childhood all the way to now, and it’s nothing strange, nothing unfamiliar. 

He stops, though, when they get to the street, emerging onto the sidewalk and are bathed in the orange and blue glow of the neon signs, the pale white of the streetlights. Dean pulls away from Sam with a sigh, and Sam looks surprised until Dean’s taking his jacket off.

“You’re fucking freezing, Sammy,” he murmurs, chiding, and wraps the leather around his younger brother. The broad shoulders practically swallow Sam, and he looks even more beautiful for it, head shifting to the side and eyelashes brushing down to meet the curl of his lips.

Some days, Dean doesn’t even understand how he gets to have this.

“I don’t mind,” Sam replies, wet whorls of hair sticking to his cheeks and the long column of his neck, one hand emerging from within the folds of the jacket to grasp the lapel, and he shifts to look up at Dean.

“You’ll get a cold. You’ll mind then -- hanging around the house, moaning like a little bitch, and who’s the one who’ll have to go out and get you chicken soup? It isn’t Dad.”

“I’m _fine,_ Dean,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes, and then he glances down at Dean’s hand, reaching out to snag it. He pulls it close again, looking at the cracks and abrasions, running the tip of his finger over Dean’s bloody knuckles. Dean took a knee to the chest without so much as a sound, but he winces when Sam presses against the wound. “What about you?”

Dean just huffs a laugh though, because there’s no concern in Sammy’s eyes, just heat.

Sam loves him. Sam would _die_ for him, and Dean’s never questioned that. It’s just a fact, as clear and true as the sky in spring. Sam has proven it time and time again, and Dean knows his little brother’s butterfly knife is under that loose shirt. He knows if it had gone bad, gone _really_ bad, Danny would be little more than sliced meat lying on the cold pavement now, just like the man back in April that wouldn’t take no for an answer when he mistook Sam for a whore.

There’s a reason the others don’t mess with Sam, and it’s not just because of Dean and not just because of loyalty. Slight though he may be, delicate and girlie, Sam’s still a Winchester, and he’s never backed down from a fight, even if he did prefer to stand prissy and aloof and let Dean take the hits for him.

There was no real danger tonight, though, and Sam knew it the whole time. Sam holds Dean’s hand in his two, but Dean knows how much it turns his little brother on to see him fight, to see him busted and raw, fresh from beating another man into the ground, and he leans in, pressing his lips to Sam’s forehead.

His skin is cool and tastes of rain, and Dean wants to lick it from his skin, lick into his mouth.

“I’m fine, you kinky little slut...” He chuckles to himself as he draws back, but he draws Sam with him, until he’s tucked under Dean’s arm again. “You can bandage me up when we get home.”

“You’ll have to wait,” Sam replies blithely, looking over at him, and Dean gives him a curious look. “Until I’ve had my way with you,” Sam finishes, as if it should be obvious, and Dean laughs.

He throws his head back in the dark drizzle of the rain and laughs, because he won the fight and kept his turf, because he has his girl with him and pressed to his side, and because it’s been a good fucking night.

He sees Sam smiling next to him, beautiful and rare, and Dean doesn’t regret a thing. He doesn’t regret a goddamned moment, not of his life, and not of the two of them. 

Life wasn’t always easy, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be good.


End file.
